


Two JayTim porn fics

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Be my Bond AU, Bond AU - Freeform, M/M, Street punk AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically what the title says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two JayTim porn fics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [varebanos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varebanos/gifts).



> This is what happens when you give me ideas.

I. Be my Bond AU

It’s not his knees that burn and go from pale to raw, from ivory to blood as he’s dropped onto the motel room’s beige, cheap carpet, not his wrists, bound to his ankles with thick, sturdy rope that won’t allow him to stand – to run, to ride – but forms a sliver, a corner of space that lets him stay upright, lets him watch as Jason unzips his pants and opens the buttons on his underwear, stroking himself until he’s flushed under his fingertips, ruffling Tim’s hair and pressing his thumb to Tim’s bottom lip, feeling the border of his teeth, the wet of his mouth, picking the angle for his sight.

“I’ve heard that you like to follow orders, 007,” he says, smirks when it’s Tim’s face, his ears that burn and go from pale to raw, from collected to incoherent, from quiet to a whirr, to turned on and everything – today’s evening, their bruised encounters, the scattered borders between them – it’s all only a matter of translation, of the transcription of the reds and the widths of its smears, its spots as it paints over Tim’s skin.

Tim glares but there’s no answer on his mouth, nothing under it. Not until Jason squeezes another inch out of the gap between them, strokes the shell of Tim’s ear, half of it affection, half of it keeping obediently stubborn Tim in his place and Jason holds his own cock inside of his palm, slides the tip from the corner of Tim’s jaw to his chin, softly thrusts its side up Tim’s cheek, lets it drag down again, taps the side against Tim’s face, holding him still as Tim bucks against the rope, tests the strain, eyes falling asleep under the heaviness of his arousal, the hum on the inside of his chest, under the tight pressure of his pants. Jason circles Tim’s mouth with the wet tip of his cock, drops of precome sliding over the curve of Tim’s chin down his throat, soaking his collar, stiffening the cloth as it dries, off-white against the pale milk of his shirt. 

Tracing Tim’s eyebrow, Jason prompts Tim to open his eyes, taps Tim’s lips with his fingers and presses against the seams of Tim’s skin with his erection, says: “Open your mouth.” and watches Tim shudder and swallow as his lips split, Jason’s cock on the border of his teeth and he smirks, pets the top of Tim’s head, caressing the windswept strands, coos when Tim tries to lean forward, tries to lick the underside of his cock. 

“Good agent,” he agrees, pulls Tim farther away, meets the colours in his eyes. “You see, Timmy,*I’m* a bad agent. I’m the one that fucking bites and won’t hold still and wouldn’t open his mouth in the first damn place.” Licking his lips, Jason teases Tim’s mouth and presses his cock up his chin, hears Tim gasp. 

“And that’s why you’re on your knees, baby b., and I’m about to fuck your face.”

II. Street Punk AU 

It hurts equally – the dried, old blood coloured press of the brick and the sinking, plastic print of his camera’s back against his flat chest, stains over his skin and under where Jason pins him to the city’s, building’s wall as if Tim’s the shade, the tinge he has to paint its centers and corners with, as if they’re there to make it beautiful. 

It hurts only where Jason isn’t, where Jason vanishes between distant creaking of brakes and ringing phones, where Jason doesn’t suck on the pierced skin of his ear, his right hand shaping the fist in his hoodie’s pocket and his left unzipping the scruffy metal of Tim’s jeans’ zipper, fingertips slipping into the corner that opens up underneath, knuckles skidding across the warm, soft layer of clothes and skin, thumbing at the round, tense tug of the button’s surface. Tim can’t pry his fingers from the edge of his skateboard, his palm sweaty where it’s plastered to the subtle, hard curve, bones revealing their ivory shapes as Jason’s hand curls around the middle of his erection, swings up and down, slow and tender until he licks a trail into the shell of Tim’s ear, dragging his underwear down as his tongue dips and outlines, Tim’s breath hooked across his lungs when Jason raises his palm to his Tim’s face, hitches and falls when he tells him to “Spit.” dropping his mouth back to Tim’s neck when the boy does, the inside of his fist secure around Tim’s cock again, picking a rhythm that Tim’s pulse can’t help but try to outrun, try to match as they go faster, as Tim’s free hand grips the loose side of Jason’s clothes, as Jason pushes his thigh between Tim’s, sucking at the underside of his jaw and complying to the thrust of Tim’s hips, his scent so clear Tim believes it won’t leave, will seep into him too, will become his own. It’s only eight and half of a stroke later when Tim tenses and spills down Jason’s knuckles, between the spaces of his fingers and the front of his jacket; only under ten strokes and Jason is wiping his come off of his hand, soaking in Tim’s lost breathing, his low, nameless moan.

“Don’t forget to zip up your fly, kid.” is what he says, moments after he kisses the side of Tim’s head, moments after he searches for his lighter.

And of course, Tim nearly does.


End file.
